


A Cold Carol

by Jael



Series: Time After Time [8]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Fix-It, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Romance, Timey-Wimey, christmas in july
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:23:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jael/pseuds/Jael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard Snart may be a so-called "good guy" now, but it's not always an easy adjustment. And when temptation beckons, he might just need a little help to stay on his path...</p><p>Written for "Christmas in July" over at lot-fan dot livejournal dot com. Set post-"If I Never."</p><p>Many thanks to LarielRomeniel for beta'ing! It's a better story because of that. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a sort of an "It's a Wonderful Life" takeoff, but then settled as sort of a "Christmas Carol" one. (There are elements of both.) Set about seven months after the end of my story "If I Never," so I recommend reading that first. (You may wish to read the others in that series, too. *shameless self-promotion*)
> 
> Four chapters written, one a week throughout July. (Or maybe more often depending on how quickly my other work is going.)

_"He carried his own low temperature always about with him …"_

Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol" (as are all quotes except for the last)

...

Leonard Snart is not, really, a big fan of Christmas.

He'd say he never has been, but that's probably untrue. There was probably a time, back in his foggiest early days, when he looked forward to a decorated tree, a visit from a myth in a red suit, the potential of presents.

It didn't last.

He tried to patch together a sort of holiday for Lisa, during her earlier years, and apparently he accomplished that, because his sister is still somewhat fond of Christmas. Enough so, anyway, that she teamed up with Sara this year to insist they have a tree at their apartment. (Lisa may not live there these days, but she's still a little proprietary about the place. Sara, fortunately, is mostly amused by this.)

He doesn't care enough to fight it, so today, three days before the holiday, there's a sweet-smelling Fraser fir in one corner. Since it went up a week or two ago, the two women in his life have decorated it, in the midst of much laughter, with a combination of snowflakes, birds, and a scattering of golden baubles. (And the lights look a little like flames, Lisa says, for the absent Mick.)

This also necessitates presents, they say, a practice he and Lisa had mostly abandoned once she reached adulthood. And Sara Lance, it turns out, was a Christmas baby, so there's even more pressure there. (Although not on her part; he'll be fair.) That's fine; he's not a man to dither over gifts and he knows what she likes.

He thinks.

Lisa says, a bit regretfully, that she'll be out of town for the actual holiday. No one asks why; the bargain is that she doesn't pull any jobs in Central or Star Cities, she doesn't actually turn people to gold or otherwise damage them, she keeps her people under control … and her brother, newly on the side of the angels, looks the other way. He can't help but wonder, though.

He misses it.

He misses the chase. Misses the challenge. Misses the planning and the adrenaline and the satisfaction of pulling off a heist.

They don't need the money. (Rip would probably have a conniption - to use one of his grandfather's favorite words - over it, but what's the use of getting a peek into the future without borrowing a little stock info? The Oculus was _very_ helpful.) They're perfectly comfortable here.

But he's bored.

Working with the Flash is entertaining, in its fashion. The crew at .R. Labs occasionally has a real use for the security information he's absorbed over the years, or even for an actual heist. He's used his knowledge of these things to foil a few, too, including at least one he thinks could have gone very, very badly. (Amateurs. They have no place in his city.) Doing these things, for a while, he can lose himself in the numbers and the planning ... just for a different side this time.

Sometimes they're called as backup for more physical confrontations, with the meta of the week or whatever. Fighting with Sara by his side will always be an intoxicating experience. And while he'll never admit it, he enjoys the teamwork.

Team Arrow … well, Sara's headed out that way solo a few times, and when she returns she's quiet and clearly irritated. She doesn't say so, but it's also clear he's not really welcome there. Not yet. Maybe not ever?

It grates.

Still, he partners with Team Flash when he's asked. He adjusts to life with Sara, which is the best part of this whole thing. He occasionally joins Mick on the Waverider if his skills are needed. He's been back to the Vanishing Point a time or two. (The often recalcitrant Oculus is a pain in Rip's rear, and Leonard finds this all too amusing.)

He's not sure who he is anymore. A hero? Sara says so, as do the others. The term still makes him uncomfortable. A vigilante? Not really. A crook? He hasn't stolen anything that didn't come with some sort of official sanction (from Team Flash or the new Time Masters) since his return to Central City.

He will admit temptation, from time to time. He admits it now, a few days before Christmas, stopping dead in his tracks and scanning the headline in the Central City Picture News. (Iris West praises him for his fondness for actual print newspapers, which amuses him.)

**"MILLENIUM STAR IN NEW U.S. EXHIBIT"**

The Millennium Star: one of the largest top-color diamonds in the world … and one of the centerpieces of what could have been the biggest robbery in history.

He knows about the Millennium Dome raid of 2000. Of course he does. He recalls at the time thinking about how _he_ would have pulled it off.

He still thinks he could - with 17 additional years of experience, now more than ever. _Knows it_. Can feel the plans and the calculations and the cool, cool logic demanded by such an undertaking unfolding in his head even as he lets himself entertain the matter for a fraction of a second.

The sudden rush, the temptation, is actually breathtaking and he stares at the headline a moment longer before crumpling the paper in his fist and heading back to the apartment with a sigh.

Sara is home. But she's holed up in the bedroom, the door closed, and he frowns as he quietly closes the front door and steps closer.

"Dad …"

He stops in his tracks.

"No. Nope. Not without him." Pause. "I'm sorry. Actually, wait, no, I'm not. Are you _kidding_ me? After everything I've told you, after everything we've ..."

Another pause.

"Dad. _Former_ crook. You keep forgetting that first word. That's better, actually, than being a _former_ assassin – which you managed to forgive. How is this …"

He can actually hear her suck in her breath at the next words; she's that angry.

"Well, I don't have any plans to be seen hobnobbing with Mr. Mayor of Star City during the holiday anyway, so you don't have to worry about his reputation. Really? After all the shit Ollie has pulled in his life? And you're welcome here, but I'm not coming there if Len's not. Deal …"

He knows Quentin Lance is skeptical of his only living daughter's relationship with a former criminal, a convicted killer, a man with a record that has, after all, only been wiped out due to a partnership with a certain Barry Allen - who may not be quite the best judge of character out there.

On some level, he can't blame the man. He's not sure how he'd take the news Lisa was seeing someone similar …

No, actually, he _is_ sure. He trusts Lisa.

(No matter how much shit he gives Cisco Ramon, whom she _is_ seeing.)

It's all just another kick in the gut only minutes after the temptation that was the exhibit news mixed with his boredom, and he feels the anger rise up in such force that, for the first time in months, he has to remind himself to breathe, to pull the ice around him, to take a mental step back.

If there's anything in life he has promised himself he will _not_ be, it's his father … with all the uncontrollable anger that entails. But he's learned … Sara Lance has taught him … that the ice comes with its drawbacks, too.

But at this moment, he needs it.

 _You can play the hero all you like, you can change down to your core for her, but it's never going to be enough_ , the little voice whispers in his head. _Crook. Criminal. Liar._

 _Disappointment_. His father's voice gets a word in, there. That doesn't happen much these days, and his gut clenches.

 _Do you know what I did for_ her _?_ He wants to say to Quentin Lance, to Oliver Queen. _Do you know what I did for that team?_

 _Do you know that it_ hurt _, getting blown apart in the_ _time stream_ _, and I still remember it some days? Do you know about the nightmares, how Sara is the only person who can chase them away? Do you know I still see two sets of memories sometimes, and the effects aren't pleasant?_

He can't hear Sara's voice on the phone now, whether she's hung up or whether she's listening to her father in silence. He should stay. He should talk to her, tell her he really does understand if she wants to go to Star City for the holiday anyway. It doesn't mean anything to him, really.

Instead, newspaper crumpled in his hand, he turns around and walks back out the door.

* * *

Since the Oculus let him go about seven months ago, he's been sensitive to temporal energy. (It might predate that, actually, but he's not sure he would have been aware of it.)

So far, that's mostly been useful just to know when the Waverider is back in the current timeline, whether it's their cue to meet Mick for a beer or to be aware they might be recruited for a mission.

Now, he's trying it for something else. Eyes closed, ignoring the chill December wind, he stands in the field on the outskirts of the city and concentrates, trying to reach his connection to the time stream, the Oculus, to send out a sort of … flare. He started trying not long after he left the apartment, and since it's time travel anyway...

It works, because within moments, he feels the sensation that means the Waverider is back in 2017, and he opens his eyes to see the ship landing, snowflakes drifting picturesquely around it.

Mick is not particularly pleased as his former partner's newfound ability. "Gideon freaked out because she detected a burst of temporal energy here and it's _you_?"

He shrugs. "I need to go to the Vanishing Point."

Mick's eyes narrow. "Sara?"

"She's fine. And because you're going to drop me off about 10 minutes from now," _I think, he adds mentally_ , "she won't even know I'm gone." He holds up a hand. "But I'll tell her. When we get back.

"Now, can we go?"

xxxxxxxxx

A small story note: The Millennium Star is a real diamond. I suggest you look up the Millennium Dome raid story, which is fascinating - and there are a number of things about it that are reminiscent of our favorite crook. The judge in the case noted how it was "carried out with the minutest attention to detail." One of those involved noted specifically that the plan was for no one to be hurt – the timing was calculated to be such. (And speculation is the Russian mob would have been the ones to sell the gems had the raid worked. Heheh.) There's a Wikipedia page on it and several books have been written. A young Leonard Snart would likely have been aware of it from the news of the day … and, I'm convinced, utterly **positive** that he would have done _much_ better. (And that's far more information than you needed for a throwaway line, but there you have it


	2. Chapter 2

_" 'Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are,' she returned. …"_

_"At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and (he) sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he used to be."_

\- Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"

...

Mick … and Rip, when they arrive at the Vanishing Point … presume this impromptu trip has to do with the Oculus, and honestly, they're not wrong.

Rip wants to know what's going on. (Len ignores him. He's not in the mood to deal with the Time Master right now.) Mick just watches him with those narrowed eyes, and honestly, that has more of an effect. But he can't bring himself, right now, to explain his inner turmoil to his friend – although, if he's being fair, the other man (who has, after all, gone from crook to Chronos to a bit of a Time Master in his own right) would probably understand more than even Sara would.

This is his own dilemma. This is his own crisis. He needs to come out the other side, one way or another, on his own.

The presence in the chamber brightens … he really doesn't have another word for it … as he strolls in and leans against the wall, taking a deep breath.

He sends that presence … call it the Oculus, call it a manifestation of the Time Force, whatever … a wordless greeting, which is enthusiastically returned, and then followed by the clear feeling of a question. It's getting better at communication, he thinks.

He composes his thoughts very carefully, then shapes a query:

_The choices I've made, the road I'm on, the path I'll go down… do they make any difference at all?_

It hangs in the silence a moment.

Then, the Oculus, showing a bit more attitude than he'd have given it credit for, sends him an image of the wellspring – not as it is now, slowly growing, but in the original Vanishing Point, right before he blew it all to hell.

 _You think?_ is its wordless commentary.

Go figure. It's a smartass. How Sara would laugh.

 _I know that_ , he sends back, acerbically. _It's just …_

How can he say it?

In the end, he just sends it his feelings of frustration, of anger … and to be fair, his satisfaction at certain elements of his new life and his love for Sara. He pours it out, and the images before him slow their ceaseless spinning, slowly change as it seems to consider …

And then, light.

When his vision clears, he's standing on the front steps of a familiar house. There's a layer of snow, just a few inches, on the ground, and Christmas lights on many of the houses around it … but not here. He's only able to register where he is when he hears the cry of a young, female voice echo from inside.

Lisa.

He surges up the steps, but when he grabs for the door, his hand passes right through it. He's prepared for another try when something, someone, tugs at his arm. He looks down and sees … Lisa. At about 5 years old, hair in ponytails, wearing that damned pink, glittery shirt she liked so much.

Her eyes are all blue light.

Ah.

The Oculus-as-sister looks up at him, then grabs his sleeve and walks right through the door. With a deep breath, he follows.

What he sees makes his heart plummet.

He still remembers this night. The combination of Lisa chattering about Christmas and bouncing around the house – especially when he knows there won't be much of a holiday, although he's stowed a few small things away for her – has done something he'll later regret. It's driven him upstairs to his room, where, he knows, he's listening to music and contemplating asking this other kid he'd met in juvie if he wants to go into … business. He already knows he'd be _much_ better at it than his dad.

That was Mick, he recalls, briefly.

He's still not sure what happened, just that she'd spilled their father's beer, apparently the last one in the house. An accident, a product of childhood clumsiness and rare high spirits. Now, he gets a glimpse at what he'd missed. She's trying to mop it up, tears pouring down her face. Lewis is standing over her, and his face is getting redder and redder as he screams, taking out years of frustrations and rage on one small girl.

Lewis doesn't really look human as he lifts the empty bottle, brings it down on the table, sending splinters of glass everywhere. A few of them hit Lisa and she flinches, staring at him with wide eyes, but still, _somehow_ , innocent enough that it doesn't occur to her, yet, to run as he lifts the bottle back into the air.

Then his teenage self thunders down the stairs, as much as that skinny stick of a kid can thunder. He makes it just in time to throw himself in front of her, raising his arms in front of himself in a defensive gesture. The jagged edge of the beer bottle comes down, hard, on his left forearm, and the blood gushes immediately.

Lisa screams. The scene grays out. The Oculus-Lisa looks at him soberly.

It was, really, a minor miracle that he hadn't bled out that night – if the knife had hit higher on the arm and then dragged down, he almost certainly could have - or that the tendons were undamaged enough that he still has a full range of movement in his fingers.

He'd had the presence of mind to grab the fistful of towels Lisa'd been using to try to clean up and stuff them against the wound before grabbing her and running, bundled arm jammed against his chest. The clinic, thank God, was only a few blocks away, and the tired and overworked personnel there had somehow believed his tale of accidentally bringing his arm down on a broken bottle … or, more likely, pretended they had. He sort of figures they think he might have done it to himself.

The movement in that hand is still touchy, once in a while, and it's a good thing he's right-handed. (He recalls thinking, which a touch of gallows humor, that it was a pity he didn't think to freeze that one that day on the jump ship.) And the scar is still a sight to behold, one of the reasons he doesn't wear short sleeves often if at all.

Still, it's an emblem of what _could_ have happened, if he hadn't heard something through his headphones upstairs, and as such, a badge of dishonor, no matter what Sara says about his scars.

He looks back at the Oculus-Lisa … which slowly shakes its head and lifts a hand to splay its fingers across its chest.

"He'd have stabbed her?" It nods. He hesitates. "Would she have … made it?"

It just stares at him. That's answer enough, and he closes his eyes, sorrow and rage warring. No kid should have to deal with this crap. (And it wasn't the last time, either. When they returned "home," Lewis was passed out on the couch and never did acknowledge the incident. Probably didn't remember it. Len cleaned up the blood, one-handed.)

Light flares against his lids. When he opens his eyes, he's somewhere else.

A room. The rough feel of a warehouse, maybe, a cavernous space full of equipment and battered desks and tables. Tools and blueprints are spread on them

The man standing near the front is holding forth in pompous fashion to other half-dozen men in the room. He's sure of himself to a fault, you can hear it in his voice, and he waves his hands as if directing an odd sort of orchestra.

"… last transport before the holiday. It's going to be huge, and the guards will be thinking about their goddamned Christmas dinner and not their surroundings. And the square's going to be so full of people they won't want a fuss; we can flank 'em with no problem. And, hey, if they won't surrender, just pop 'em, then we can take the truck and get the hell outta there, people'll get outta the way …"

He remembers this night, too. Which means ...

"That's going to be a fuckin' disaster."

He knows the voice, knows the drawl, knows the studiously bored tone. It's his, after all.

The Leonard Snart who slouches against the desk in the back of the room is a much younger man – if he remembers correctly, half his current age. Early 20s and cocky with it, now out from under the thumb of his father. Still skinny, but finally with a little muscle, with dark, close-cropped hair that's only just starting to show a fleck or two of silver at the temples. (That started early. It's a longstanding joke between him and Lisa: She teases him about it and he blames her for it.)

Arkin - a two-bit petty thug, really, but one who likes to fancy himself a leader of the Central City criminal element and, as such, the sort a young up-and-coming crook has to edge around at first - stops mid-word, speechless.

"You go in there like that, really to start 'poppin' people," Leonard's younger self continues, the disdain thick in his voice, "this is going to turn into a clusterfuck so fast you won't even see it coming. There will be too many people around, too many witnesses; you gonna kill all of them? There's no real _plan_ here."

Arkin's eyes narrow. "You some sorta _bleeding heart_ , Snart?" he sneers, making the words sound like the worst of insults. "Not ready to run with this crowd? You're just here on sufferance, since Rory said you do good work. He didn't say you were _soft_."

But the younger Snart's voice stays cool. Cold, even.

"You want bleeding? People start bleeding, kids start crying, cops show up real quick: _we_ start bleeding. Gloves will be off. No one gets outta there. That what you want?"

The others are murmuring now. He's making sense, the new guy, and they know it. They're not idiots, not really, just followers, and they're not particularly bad men. They don't want to be part of a bloodbath, and definitely not as the ones whose blood is shed.

Arkin is losing control, it's obvious, and things could go very wrong anyway as the anger flashes in his eyes and his fingers twitch. But Leonard Snart hasn't survived to this point in his life without knowing how to manage people with anger issues.

The older version watches his younger self's head tilt to the side in a rather familiar gesture, notes the flash of distaste and scorn in his eyes as he speaks up again.

"But you said it yourself," he adds. He's never been able to manage obsequious, but he does manage thoughtful. "The guards will probably be distracted. And they'll have to pay more attention because of the crowd in the downtown shopping district, too …"

No one, least of all their self-proclaimed mastermind, picks up on the gambit. The older Snart can almost see the internal sigh his younger self heaves before continuing. "… If we timed it right, we might be able to maneuver the armored car into a position where we could get in and out with none the wiser ..."

Arkin perks up again at that and with judicious interjections by his group's newest participant, they manage to hash out a bona fide plan. The man from years later remembers a heist that went off smoothly and cleanly, if with fewer proceeds than anticipated (because Arkin, who was supposed to be sure they were lifting the biggest transport of the day, didn't do his homework). But no one is caught, no blood shed … and within six months, the older man botches a solo heist and pulls a stint in Iron Heights, letting a younger, cleverer crook pick over the best of his people.

The scene grays out again, like the last one.

What on earth was he supposed to get from this?

"If I hadn't been stubborn, talked them out of it, came up with a better plan, what would have happened?" he says, suddenly, to his companion.

Oculus-Lisa blinks, then, out of nowhere, holds up a copy of a newspaper dated Dec. 25, 1994, one that the Central City Picture News never actually had to print.

"Fifteen dead in holiday massacre," screams the headline. The subhead notes that eight people, including several children, were mowed down by vehicles, while seven – including four suspects and a police officer – were killed in a firefight, but the paper is gone again before he can read more.

"I didn't really do it for humanitarian reasons," he tells it. "It just made sense."

It shrugs, ponytails bouncing, the gesture oddly eloquent.

Then: Light, again.

And he's outside the gulag.

She's there.

Sara.

Clad all in black, her bright hair confined, rifle up to her shoulder, ready to fire. Trained on Stein.

"Sara, don't do it."

He hears the voice, knows it for his own, not so many months younger. A man who's only starting to acknowledge he feels _something_ for one Sara Lance, who has no idea what to call it or do with it but knows, as sure as he knows anything in life, that shooting Martin Stein would _break_ her.

He'd come so close to not returning, to just following Mick out the door. Changed his mind, in part due to Mick's stubborn refusal to abandon Ray. How can he do less for someone … for … for Sara?

Nothing more than that, he told himself then. Consideration for a teammate … _teammates_ , both Stein and Sara. Disrupting Rip's plan is always a fringe benefit, of course.

"That's how a killer thinks … and that's not you anymore."

She hesitates … and then concedes, bows her head. He's standing at another angle now, sees the anguish on her face, reaches out involuntarily ...

Everything grays out. Slowly, he pulls back his hand, turns to the Oculus.

"What would have happened? If she'd shot Stein?"

Its head tilts. He blinks as a rush of images flash through his mind's eye – Stein bloody on the ground; Sara, pale and stoic, avoiding him, the crook who had more of a conscience than she did, the man who knows what she's done. In 2046 Star City, she rages at Rip, refuses to listen, loses control and gives in to the bloodlust while _he_ 's off with Mick.

Dies again, lost in its depths, there in her devastated city. Another teammate down.

He loses track of the images then, too shocked to breathe, but they end with one common denominator: All of them, dead.

And Vandal Savage, ascendant, laughing.

Oh.

The shock of seeing Sara, watching that scene play out again in front of him, of seeing what would have come of her if he'd done one thing differently, makes his tone sharp.

"OK. Maybe I've done a decent thing or three, for whatever reason, during my life. But that doesn't mean what I'm doing … trying to do … now is going to mean jack shit."

It sighs. And light floods his vision again.


	3. Chapter 3

_"However, his offences carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him.''_

_"Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die?"_

\- Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"

...

When the light clears, he's looking at Sara again.

But this, he's quite sure, _is_ the woman he knows now. For one thing, she's beating the snot of a training dummy in the makeshift training studio they'd gotten permission to set up in the basement of the apartment building. It's cramped and stuffy, and he actually has plans for something much better, but ...

He turns to look at his companion … and blinks, because the Oculus' avatar is taller now, much taller … is Mick, actually, his eyes all blue light.

"That's uncanny."

It shrugs. Gestures back to the scene in front of them.

She's taking a break, mopping sweat off her face, her back to them. Even after everything between them, he feels a little like a voyeur; she doesn't know he's "here," after all. But he can't stop looking anyway.

"Blondie, I'm sure he's not leaving or anything too stupid like that."

Mick. He whirls, spies his friend leaning in the doorway of the room. Makes the logical leap. He really hadn't wanted Sara to know he'd run off on her. "You _asshole_ …"

"I know." Sara turns and he's a touch relieved to see a slight smile on her lips. "Come on, Mick. I understand needing to get your head together. I just …" He's chagrined to see the smile run away. " … wish it wasn't necessary."

Mick grunts. "Family shit?"

"Partly." He can see the flicker of ire in her eyes. "You'd think … well. That's beside the point. And as far as I'm concerned, that has nothing to do with Leonard."

"You think? Blondie, how would you have felt about it if Lisa had decided you weren't good enough for her big brother, huh? Would that have 'nothing to do with' you?" He nods as he sees her grimace. "I don't care how much Snart has perfected the 'I don't fucking care' pose. With everything he's done now, that's gotta sting."

"You … may have a point. I hope … well." She shakes her head, then throws him a teasing glance. "You're smarter than you look."

"They tell me that."

"Yeah, I hear your newest 'recruit' does." She laughs out loud as he directs a glare at her. "Oh, come on. Ray talks. I hear she's cute. And tough. And doesn't take any of your shit."

"Hm. Maybe." He's not letting her off the hook, though. "We were talking about you and Snart. What else is bugging you, Sara?"

They've been through too much together not to be a strange sort of family, now. And faced with very fraternal concern, she caves.

"He's bored, Mick. _Bored_. I can see it in his eyes. And who wants to think the person they're in a relationship with is bored?"

"I don't think it's the ... _relationship …_ he's bored with." She smiles and throws her towel at his raised eyebrows and slightly lascivious smile. "Seriously."

"Doesn't make it any less true."

"Hmm. He … ah … he isn't doing the criminal thing anymore, is he?"

"No. I wouldn't even mind, so much … I mean, look what I've done with _my_ life … as long as no one got hurt, but he said he wanted to give it a try. Establish a stable life. Stay in Central City. It was a condition for Barry wiping his file again, actually."

The silence lengthens.

"He was good at it," Mick says finally. "Really, really fuckin' good at it, you know? Paper called him a 'world-class thief' a few times. One of the best in the world.

"Wasn't just about the money. It was about the game. You know Snart. He's a planner. What does he have to plan now?"

Sara sighs ... and the unseen observer is shaken at the look on her face.

"I love him," she admits in a low voice. "I don't know what to do. What if that's not enough?"

The scene grays out. Oculus-Mick looks at him.

He has no words, really, to give it.

And, after a moment, the light flares.

When he can see again, they're in … a coffee shop?

The only one of that ilk he's really familiar with at all is CC Jitters … they've met Kendra there a few times, when she's in town … and this isn't it. It seems to be midday, after the morning caffeine rush and before the afterschool crowd, and there are only a few people scattered around, perusing laptops or reading newspapers.

There's a familiar man, perhaps a double-handful of years older than himself, sitting at a table by the window, an untouched cup of black coffee in front of him. He's barely registered the man's presence and identity when there's a flicker, outside. A flash of gold.

And the door of the shop opens.

"Quentin Lance? Barry Allen."

Oh, god _damn_ , is the kid doing what he thinks ...

"And, well, I know this is the first time we've met, officially, but Oliver said he'd told you about me, and well …"

Lance holds up a hand. The expression on his face is one that Snart is pretty damned sure has lived on his own face a time or two. It's a very "dealing with Barry Allen" expression.

(It's there now, actually. But the Oculus, his only observer, isn't going to comment on it.)

"Calm down, kid. Calm down. It's no problem. I have … time on my hands, these days." Lance takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee. "Sara had … encouraged … me to call you. Have to say, didn't expect you to call me. Or to suggest getting coffee in a city 600 miles away from your home."

"Well, she said you might be calling, I think she hoped you would, so …" Taking a deep breath, Allen finally sits down. "Nice to meet you."

"Same. I think." His gaze is skeptical. "You gonna try to convince me my daughter isn't making a huge mistake?"

"Um. No. I'm going to _tell_ you your daughter and her 'huge mistake' are making a huge difference in Central City."

Lance's eyebrows rise. (So do Snart's.) But he just takes another sip of coffee. "Do tell."

"Look. I get it. Uh, as much as I can. Leonard Snart gave us a lot of trouble once …"

Lance snorts.

"... And OK, he can be a bit of a jerk …"

Snart snorts.

"… but he's been helping us out a lot over the past six months. So has Sara, of course; they're kind of a package deal, it's sort of cute …" He stops at the look on the other man's face. "… yeeeahhh, anyway, Snart's really proven invaluable with the insider information. He's helped us, well, with a few … S.T.A.R. Labs projects … and he's helped the CCPD, through us, with some cases. The last one resulted in 12 arrests, and … oh!"

Allen pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, then holds it out in Lance's direction.

"Look at this."

The former detective takes the phone, studies the photo on its screen. His face goes carefully blank. "That's …"

"A bomb. Uh huh. Or the pieces of one, a big one. That last case Snart helped us crack wide open, that resulted in all those arrests? We found that in one of the gang's safe houses. The detectives think they meant to blow the whole damned block up, cover their tracks. Blame it on terrorists, get away with a ton of money and no suspicions directed at mere homegrown criminals. And I'm pretty sure you know, Mr. Lance, how many people could have died if that thing went 'boom.' "

"A lot," Lance says softly, studying the photo. "A awful lot."

"Yeah. Leonard Snart doesn't have to help us. Sara's not dragging him around by the collar. Sure, maybe he's doing it because he loves her, but isn't that why we all do things?" He doesn't back down from the glare from Lance, which admittedly seems somewhat more half-hearted than it was earlier.

"And if you won't trust me, call Joe West. Of the CCPD? He told me once that leopards don't change their spots. Now he keeps requesting Snart be brought in for cases. And he sent me that." Allen motions to the photo, still displayed on the phone in Lance's hand. "Wanted me to tell him. I haven't had a chance yet.

"You just should know that, OK?

Quentin Lance doesn't say anything. But his expression is very, very thoughtful.

So is Leonard Snart's.

Gray-out.

He takes a deep breath. Releases it.

"If you're going the traditional route," he drawls to his companion. "there's one more phase to this, isn't there?"

Oculus-Mick regards him.

It all goes white, again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And ... done! Thanks for reading. And check out other Christmas in July LOT fic at lot-fan dot livejournal dot com.

_"But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart."_

_"Answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?''_

\- Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"

…..

It's different, this time.

It's much the same as the period he remembers, distantly, being trapped in the Oculus. Blue light, many images revolving around him. But this time, there's more than just a disembodied presence with him; there's a figure standing opposite him, its eyes all blue light.

It's otherwise the mirror image of himself.

"Can't do the 'This is Your Life' thing when it comes to the future, huh?" It just stares at him, which is even more unnerving with it wearing his body. He sighs.

"OK. Soooo," the drawl is familiar, giving him the time to compose his thoughts, "maybe I did make a difference. Maybe I still am. OK. That's good. So want do you want to show me?"

He gets the impression of a mental shrug.

_What do you_ want _?_

Good question.

Last time, it had asked him where he _belonged_. The answer is partly the same.

Sara.

But he also wants a purpose. He wants a challenge. Maybe his days when both of those things just came down to "the next big score" are gone, but the desire remains. He also wants, he'll admit now, to protect his city.

Will it be enough? He thinks, with what he's seen now, that maybe it will.

But the images are spinning faster now and he's starting to catch more than a glimpse of many of them.

Sara. In a white dress on a rooftop. Fighting at his side. Kissing him at the stroke of midnight. Older, silver in her hair, smiling at him.

Holding a toddler with her golden hair and an awfully familiar pair of pale eyes … wait, what …?

But there's Lisa, grinning evilly, her arms around the neck of a chagrined-looking Cisco Ramon. Mick, a beer in his hand, clapping him on the back. Ray and Stein (and Clarissa) and Jax and Kendra and even an uncomfortable- but pleased-looking Rip, talking around the table at the Steins' house.

Someone he'd swear is the Arrow and a slighter figure in similar red garb, guarding his back in a fight. A bespectacled blonde woman who looks vaguely familiar. Barry Allen, older himself, speaking to him with the same annoying earnestness he's always shown.

His crew? His … family.

There's always been an underlying uneasiness in him, since things started changing, that this is all going to go away. He'll screw it up. He'll revert. He'll turn into Lewis.

The Oculus is dismissive. Of course he won't, it tells him. He _knows_ better.

There's an added weight to the thought, and he understands, he thinks. Go out there. Do his best.

And in return … this.

Crooks don't get to be happy, not long-term. Not really. They die young. Or they try to kill their own daughters; they get frozen to death by their own sons.

For the first time, he faces the fact he's never believed he'd get a future like _this_ , no matter what he did. A bad penny is a bad penny. But the Oculus is telling him that's not so. There are no promises, but if he stays on the road he's on …

_No one else suffers because of it?_ he asks, tentatively. He feels its satisfaction at the question, but also negation at the sentiment. _No strings? You'll make sure._

_Can_ , it insists nonchalantly. _Will_.

Somewhere, he thinks, Rip Hunter would be appalled. It's an added bonus.

Leonard Snart smiles. A real smile, not just a smirk.

And everything goes white, one more time.

* * *

_"Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset."_

_"He did it all, and infinitely more."_

…

He gives Mick a measured look when his old friend informs him that he can't possibly take him back to Central City on Dec. 23, 2017, sooner than a handful of hours after he left. But he also doesn't call him out on the trip he knows the other man took there to talk to Sara.

"You all right, boss?"

He hasn't been "boss" for a long time. Coming from Mick, that's almost a term of affection ... or as close as they get. He answers the question only with a "yeah" and a small smile … but it's a real smile, and that's enough for their purposes. Mick rolls his eyes and socks him in the shoulder.

They set him down in the Central City evening and, with a wave, he starts the walk back to the apartment, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, head bowed against the December wind, which is still whipping snowflakes around in its wake. His feet know the route; he's not really paying much attention to his surroundings, until …

"Len?"

Startled, he looks up. She's standing there, on the bridge he needs to cross to get to city center, bundled against the cold and watching him.

"Mick called. Said you were on your way back. I thought I'd meet you."

Her gaze is tentative, which hurts his heart. There's always been so little about her that's tentative; that's one of the things he likes. But he's not still not entirely used to factoring other people into his life, and his abrupt departure didn't help matters.

He takes two, three swift steps to her and kisses her, dipping her like they're a couple in an old movie, trying to convey without words that he loves her, and that he's not going anywhere.

She laughs against his mouth and he dips her deeper, then sweeps her back up to grin at her and kiss her again.

Someday, he'll tell her all of it. The past, the present, the possibilities in their future.

For now, though, he kisses her in the falling snow.

It is enough.

* * *

Christmas Day is lazy. Neither of them has a problem with that.

By mid-afternoon, they're both lounging on the sofa, Len deep in one of the out-of-print history books Sara'd found for him. She's lying sideways next to him, head on his shoulder, stretched out across the cushions with her feet on the arm.

Sara is wearing a new white gold snowflake pendant, glittering with tiny blue diamonds, around her neck … but she's also paging avidly through her birthday present, the plans that he'd wrapped up in an envelope and left under the tree. Plans for turning the old warehouse/safehouse (the one where he'd been shot nearly a year ago, oddly enough) into a martial arts studio; a place for her to train, herself and, maybe, others. An 'Arrow Cave' of her own, really. Canary Cave?

Can he _gift_ , or can he gift? he thinks, a touch smugly.

There are steaks and lobster tails thawing in the fridge and a new bottle of wine on the counter. It may be just them, but it's pretty damned domestic, really.

And then there's a noise at the door.

Sara's on her feet instantly, pausing to snatch one of her batons and give him a wary glance. He stands, slowly, hand drifting to where the Cold Gun is propped against the wall, out of sight.

She looks through the peephole … then, darting another glance back at him, throws back the deadbolt and lock and opens the door.

"Dad?"

"Hey. Hey, honey. I was just about to knock, really." Quentin Lance shuffles uneasily just outside. "I know I should have called, but … well, you said I was welcome. Still? I hope?"

She opens the door wider, but also turns a little to raise an eyebrow at Len. He nods.

Lance notes the byplay and his eyes flicker, but he sidles into the apartment, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he looks around.

What'd he expect, a dark and gloomy den of thieves? Probably.

"What changed your mind?" He knows Sara well enough to detect the faint hint of hope in her voice, even as she layers a bit of skepticism onto the words.

"Well. Can't not see my baby girl on her birthday, can I? And … well, Mr. Snart, you have some awfully staunch defenders, you know that? Besides my daughter." He huffs out a sigh and looks at said daughter. "Which should have counted for more to begin with. Sorry, honey."

"Hmm. Yes, it should have." Her tone is still cool, but the fondness is sneaking in.

Lance sighs again, then looks over at the taller man still standing over by the sofa. Then he shakes his head and crosses the room to extend a hand.

"Let's start over, all right? Quentin Lance. Pleased to meet you."

Slowly, he takes it. "Leonard Snart. Likewise."

"This … OK?" He looks between the two of them. "I mean, I don't have to stay..."

"It's good. I'll get another steak out of the freezer." Leonard tries for casual, and thinks maybe he succeeds.

"Dad, is that...?" Sara, her eyes sparkling, reaches out to take the bag in her father's hand. He lifts it high and smirks at her.

"Yep. Birthday cake from Condrell's. Just like every one you've … been here for … since you were 1. Chocolate with strawberry filling."

"You're the best!" She kisses him on the cheek, deftly snatches the bag from his grasp, and carries it into the kitchen.

Quentin Lance eyes his daughter's lover. Then, with the air of a career – but now ex- - cop who finally has something in common to talk about with a career – but now ex- - criminal, he throws out a conversation gambit like a lifeline.

"So. I hear you helped the CCPD take down something that coulda gotten pretty bad a few weeks back …"

So they're actually "talking shop" when Sara returns and laughs at them.

"You know," she teases, taking a seat, "the Wests … and Barry Allen … invited us over for Christmas dinner. We could actually head over there after we eat here. You and Joe would probably hit it off, Dad, if you really want to talk about this stuff."

"Funny, that." Her father brightens even more. "I've actually already met Joe West …"

Leonard, for his part, gives her a sidelong glance that's so long-suffering that she laughs right out loud, the sound rippling with …

Joy.

Maybe he can get used to this Christmas thing, after all.

And all the other things that come with this "hero" life, as well.

…...

_"_ _Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"_

Clarence, "It's a Wonderful Life"


End file.
